


star struck

by championstunic



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Actor Hirugami Sachirou, Alcohol Mentions, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Pro Volleyball Player Hoshiumi Kourai, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/championstunic/pseuds/championstunic
Summary: sachirou hates romance films. yet, he's been trapped playing lead roles in romance dramas for the entirety of his burgeoning career, putting a strain on his passion for acting. however, when one of his brother's teammates crash lands into his life with all the tact of a torrential spring rain and proceeds to make himself right at home, sachirou starts to find that maybe he doesn't mind romance so much after all.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59





	star struck

**Author's Note:**

> no, this isn't named after the 2010 disney channel original movie starring sterling knight and danielle campbell.
> 
> i'll probably add additional tags as need be, and i foresee the rating potentially increasing to m in the future (nothing higher, though)

\---

It’s the first day of spring when Kita calls him.  Yet, the mid-March weather isn’t all that different from winter, and there’s a foreboding chill hanging in the misty morning air. The’re still a few weeks before the cherry blossoms start blooming in Tokyo.  The only park near Sachirou’s apartment building that he dares venture to, with plenty of niche hiding places for him to take advantage of, is almost empty, aside from a few jetlagged tourists.

Sachirou is wearing a thick jacket with the collar flipped up, covering his ears. He's rubbing his hands together for warmth when his phone starts ringing.  Sachirou wraps the leash he’s using to walk his dog, Shumai, around the knuckles of his left hand and digs into the back pocket of his faded jeans with his right hand, pulling it out with still-freezing fingers. He slides one finger across the screen to answer the call without bothering to check the caller ID.  Immediately, he tucks the cold phone between his ear and his shoulder to be able to shove his hand back into his jacket pocket.

“Hello?” he says into the phone, pausing by a pagoda tree that’s beginning to regenerate the leaves it lost in the winter. He leans back against its trunk while Shumai sniffs something in the grass up ahead.

“Hirugami, I’m glad you’re awake,” the voice on the other side says without greeting. Sachirou recognizes it immediately as belonging to his agent.

Confused, Sachirou pulls his left hand out of his pocket to check the watch fastened around his wrist.  It’s not as expensive or fancy as others he owns — the designer ones that he saves for press appearances and movie premieres.  But, it was a gift from his brother after he graduated from high school, and he prefers its comfortable, worn cloth strap over stiff leather . “Kita-san, it’s almost nine in the morning. Of course I’m awake.”

“Anyway,” Kita continues.  Sachirou grimaces at the change of subject, remembering countless times at the very beginning of his career.  In his early 20s, after long nights spent with people he doesn't even care about anymore, Kita’s calls would be the first thing to rouse him from sleep, despite the time usually being well past noon. Sachirou doesn’t sleep in late often anymore, though. He has no reason to.  “I got a message from Sugawara-san, the casting manager on an upcoming Ennoshita Chikara project.  Apparently, Ennoshita wants to work with you again.”

Sachirou sighs and watches the condensation from his breath puff out in front of him for a second before dissipating. He moves forward a few steps as Shumai tugs on her leash. He’s worked with Ennoshita before, and Sachirou doesn’t dislike him as a director or a person. The problem is that he only ever seems to want to cast Sachirou for leading roles in romance movies.  The same genre of silly, pointless films that have defined Sachirou’s career since he started acting  professionally, towards the end of his time in university.

Even before he was a professional actor, Sachirou disliked romance movies. He dislikes the way everything happens so  easily; as if life’s problems can  be fixed  and wrapped up in an hour and a half.  He dislikes the way they trick audiences into believing in the existence of unrealistic things: love at first sight, or big, romantic gestures will make someone fall in love, or love conquers all.  Sachirou especially dislikes the way romance movies show that there are only two types of people worthy of love: attractive men and attractive women, who  are attracted  to each other.  From a young age, they instilled in him the idea that he would never be able to find love himself, because he’s never  been attracted  to women in the way that his characters always are.

Sachirou dislikes romance movies because they're a reminder of everything he’ll never be able to have.

Sachirou’s  intimately  aware of the fact that, when people like him _are_ in movies, it always ends in suffering.  In his opinion, the only purpose of romance movies is to show that people like him  are doomed  to remain  perpetually  unloved. To have to hide parts of themselves away for the comfort and happiness of others.  When Sachirou signed his first major motion picture contract, he also resigned himself to that much.

“What’s it about?” he asks anyway, figuring that he already knows the answer.

“Star-crossed lovers,  apparently  ,” Kita replies  bluntly.

Sachirou holds back a snort. How original. “Of what variety is it this time? Historical? Are they in university? Is there family drama?” Whatever it is, Sachirou’s  probably  already acted in some kind of spin on it during his short career.

This time, Kita sighs, and it sends crackles of static through Sachirou’s speakers. He hears papers shuffling on the other end of the call. Then, Kita speaks, sounding as if he’s reading a synopsis straight from Sugawara’s message.  “It’s a ‘modern day star-crossed romance between the self-righteous, rich and famous daughter of a technology tycoon and the poor, unhappy convenience store clerk who longs for a more fulfilling life.  It takes place in a whirlwind after they meet one fateful spring, when she gets separated from her friends during a night out.’”

Sachirou hesitates.  Despite his long-held aversion to the genre, he's somehow  been pigeonholed  into playing the same male romance lead over and over again  .  After getting stuck with the same role so often, Sachirou's forgotten why he chose to become an actor in the first place.  There must be something more fulfilling for him to do; something that doesn’t make him feel like he’s going against the very core of his being.

He knows Kita senses his hesitation, because he hears papers shift again. Kita sends a small hum through the microphone. “ Just  so you know,” Kita adds to fill the silence, “You _are_ their first choice for this role. Of course, you'll still have to audition, but that's a formality.”

“Yes, I understand,” Sachirou replies, something like bile rising in his throat. He’s letting Shumai guide him along the park walkway now.  She continues sniffing along the crack where the grass meets the dirt path, and Sachirou's content to give no input of his own on where she’ll lead him next. “Then… I’ll meet with Sugawara-san and Ennoshita-san.”

“Sounds great,” Kita says, not bothering to inflect any actual joy into his tone to match his sentiment. “I’ll send them your schedule, but the meeting will  probably  happen within the next couple of days. Be prepared for a cold read, or even a screen test with your potential co-star.”

“Of course, Kita-san. I know the drill.”  Sachirou feels like he’s been through this process a million times already, although the number is actually less than twenty. He’s about to hang up the phone when he hears Kita’s tinny voice in his ear once more, closer this time.

“Oh! And don’t forget to catch your train this afternoon to see your brother and sister,” Kita says. He doesn't wait for another response (or possible argument) before ending the call.

Sachirou slumps down onto a nearby wooden bench that stares out at a small pond a few meters away. Shumai stops inspecting the grass and trots back to him, sitting down  patiently  at his feet.  He’d almost forgotten that he has plans to visit with his siblings for the Vernal Equinox, and he almost wishes that Kita hadn’t reminded him. That way, he’d have an excuse to miss it.

Although his family as a whole has never been one for strict spirituality or religion, his sister makes sure to use any opportunity to bring the three siblings together every once in a while.  Especially now that they’re all living in different places with  vastly  different schedules and their parents have moved overseas, it’s become rare for  all of  them to exist in the same space at the same time. So, Shouko grabs every possible chance to invite them over and refuses to let go.

Sachirou and his brother only ever attend out of obligation to their sister and the fact that they can’t think of excuses not to, which is exactly what Shouko wants to exploit. Sachirou isn't in the right mood to deal with his brother today, though.  He knows that Fukurou's disapproving jabs at his career choice will only further ruin his already pitiful mood as he struggles with his own frustration of ending up in yet another mainstream cliche romance movie.

“Do I  really  have to go to this thing?” he asks Shumai, who looks up at him  expectantly. Unfortunately, she doesn’t give him the answer he’s seeking. Sachirou  just  leans down to give her a few pats on her head; rewarding her for nothing but her companionship. “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t stand up nee-chan, huh?”

Sachirou leans back and stares up at the dull, cloudless morning sky, struggling to understand _why_ he agreed to do this film in the first place.  Kita never pressures him, only making sure to encourage Sachirou to do things that he thinks would be right. Sachirou knows Kita wouldn’t have disproved if he’d refused the invitation. Yet, Sachirou had found himself agreeing, almost without thinking.  Sachirou is sick and tired of playing the same pretty boy love interest role that he’s  been saddled  with for the past five or so years. But, he also can’t find it within himself to turn them down.

Directors, co-stars, movie critics praise his acting, even if it's always dumb romance movies, and Sachirou knows he does his work well. He’s never known anything else, having started off as a romance actor as soon as he debuted.  And, as much as he thinks about breaking out of the typecast he’s stuck in, Sachirou doesn’t know how he’d go about asking Kita to find him other kinds of roles, or what kind of other movies he’s interested in  .  He’s sacrificed a lot to become an actor, because naive twenty-year-old Sachirou thought it was something he loved  unconditionally.  Now, though, jaded twenty-six-year-old Sachirou can’t afford to turn down a role when the director himself is requesting him.

Quitting the business altogether will never be an option. Not after everything he’s given up to get where he is. Not after everything he decided to hide about himself a long time ago. He knows this, so he says yes almost every time. Still, Sachirou often finds himself wondering if he’ll be stuck playing characters he hates in movies he hates until the final few sparks of his passion  inevitably  burn out and die. The idea alone is enough to terrify him.

Shaking his unsavory thoughts away like Shumai shakes water off of her fur, Sachirou stands back up.  He continues his steady march forward, his dog  enthusiastically  trailing as far ahead as her leash will allow.

\---

It’s warmer when Sachirou arrives in Nagano, but only because it’s the afternoon and the sun is shining higher in the sky over the Togakushi mountains, unblanketed by clouds. It’s even hotter back in Tokyo, which sits at a  considerably  lower altitude.

The hour and a half train ride had been  mostly  uneventful. The train was emptier than it usually is around this time of day.  Most people have chosen to spend their day off at home with family or paying respects to lost loved ones, so Sachirou was able to get through the trip without anyone bothering him  . At least, until the train stopped at Nagano Station.  A girl who looked about university-age had stopped Sachirou on his way out, asking for an autograph and picture.  Still, despite his unpleasant morning and unease at having to spend time with his brother, he agreed  .  Sachirou _does_ like his fans, even if most of them are teenage girls who idolize some fantasy version of himself. Plenty of them have delusions of somehow, someday, romancing him.  But his public image is important to him, too, and being rude to even one fan because he’s having a bad day could hurt his career.

Sachirou  constantly  worries about all kinds of things ruining his career. Using poor manners around his fans is  probably  one of the easiest of those to avoid. He’s already sacrificed so much to protect his image, after all.

Not wanting to worry about someone recognzing him again, Sachirou opts out of taking the bus to Shouko’s house. Instead, he chooses to hail a taxi at the front of the station. Through the backseat window, he watches the scenery of his home city  fly  by  idly. The Joshin-etsu expressway that he’s traveling on runs parallel to the Chikuma River.  On the other side is the Zenkou-ji Temple, and the mountains loom over everything, watching but not seeing, exactly as they always have.  He figures the temple must  be packed  today, full of worshippers and their families paying respects.

Everything is so familiar, yet the familiarity is an unwelcome greeting while he mentally prepares himself to spend the evening with his brother. It’s an unpleasant reminder of a childhood spent trying to fulfill dreams that weren't his.

The city itself never wronged him, aside from its dullness. As a kid, he never felt like there was much to do in Nagano, but it didn’t matter because he filled his days with volleyball.  Maybe  if there had been other, more exciting places, for him to spend his time — places where he could get away from volleyball for a little while — he would have continued playing. Sachirou wonders about that, as he looks out over the sleepy city, but he knows that’s not the case.

For years, it was all he knew: wake up, eat breakfast, train, go to school, train some more, come home, eat dinner, study volleyball technique, go to sleep, repeat.  He did it  robotically, because he’s the youngest child of two professional star volleyball players, and his family expected it of him. It never occurred to him that there was anything else he _could_ do. It never occurred to him that he had any say in the matter at all. Even as he found himself falling out of love with the sport that he devoted his whole life to.

Naturally, when he decided not to pursue volleyball further after high school, choosing to go to university and pursue theater on a whim instead (the first time he ever let himself act on impulse without overthinking every worst possible outcome), it caused strife between himself and the rest of his family. His brother took it the hardest. He’d always seen himself as Sachirou’s mentor and earliest supporter. He even had hopes that they’d play together on the same team one day.  Fukurou  constantly  told Sachirou how lucky he was to have a big brother with V. League connections. _Lucky_ because it would be so simple to take the easy route, no matter how much he knew he would hate it.

Steadfast in his resolve, Sachirou trashed those hopes, along with all Fukurou’s support. To this day, he’s never turned back. He doesn’t regret it, no matter how often Fukurou goes out of his way to remind him about his incorrect choice.

Now, Nagano, for all its lush greenery and lazy countryside, only serves as a reminder of Sachirou’s first eighteen years of resignation.  Eighteen years believing he would spend the rest of his life doing nothing except for volleyball  .  Eighteen years not allowing himself to long for anything else and knowing he’d still never be good enough to meet his own standards.  Nothing except for volleyball, and working himself half to death to produce any results he could be almost proud of.

The Togakushi mountains watched him go through it all.  The stress, the self-loathing, the countless arguments with Fukurou after he finally chose to leave everything behind.  They watched when he walked home from another practice on the verge of tears, and when he stormed out of his house in the middle of the night, his brother shouting his name into the wind and his sister trailing close behind.  They watched him learn things about himself, like how he could never  truthfully  reciprocate any girls' confession, and they watched him tuck that knowledge away afterwards, trying to forget the implications of it.  They even watched when he received his university acceptance letters, hiding them from his family until he couldn’t hide them anymore. Finally, they watched when he packed up his things and moved away.

Still, the mountains watch him every time he returns to visit.  They serve as a sign to ensure he remains steadfast in his determination, even as they watch his passion dwindle away yet again. He can’t let that get to him this time, though.  He can’t let the mountains see him fall apart again, to the point where he’d be unsure whether he’ll be able to put himself back together. This time, Sachirou’s sure he’s found something he needs to hold on to. He’s already let too many things go in the process.

After what feels like an eternity, but is closer to fifteen minutes, the taxi stops outside Shouko’s house.  It’s smaller than some of the other houses in the area,  mostly  serving as a bed and kitchen for when she isn’t travelling, as well as the main gathering place for their limited sibling reunions throughout the year.  It’s not the same house they all grew up in — their parents sold that house years ago, when they moved overseas — but it looks similar enough to make Sachirou’s palms ache with phantom pain, as if he’s  just  spiked a volleyball.

Shouko’s always been a sucker for the type of nostalgia that Sachirou never lets himself fall for.  The type of person to cry over the ending of a romance drama or to flip through old photo albums with a fond smile on her face instead of an agitated frown.

Sachirou can already feel his heart trying to crawl its way up his throat as he pays the driver and steps out of the car.  While he approaches the door, he holds the box of pre-made botamochi from his favorite confectionery a few blocks from his apartment close to his chest with both hands. He hopes that his firm grip on something solid will help him stay grounded.  No matter how many years it’s been, Sachirou still has the same urge to turn around and run down the block, as he often did in high school. He’s not scared of his brother, though.  Most of the time, he  just  doesn’t know if he can control himself from lashing out at the underhanded things Fukurou says, and that usually upsets Shouko.

Fukurou answers the door immediately after Sachirou knocks, his face already pink with inebriation.

“Sachirou’s here!” he yells at no one in particular as Sachirou steps inside, wincing at the volume. Fukurou shuts the door behind him.  Even though Sachirou’s been a few centimeters taller for years now, Fukurou wraps an arm around his neck and pulls Sachirou down into a headlock, laughing. “I’m so glad my superstar baby brother decided to finally grace us with his presence. I was starting to think you ditched us again.”

Sachirou, trying to pry his brother’s arm off so that he can finish untying his sneakers, hears his sister’s voice drift over from the direction of the kitchen.

“He  just  got here! Stop picking on him,” she shouts through the open doorway. The sound of of banging pots and pans follow her yell.  Then come a few loud curses, more familiar curling off of his sister’s tongue than most people would consider appropriate.

So far, it’s nothing out of the ordinary for their family dinners. Even at the age of twenty-nine, Shouko hasn’t gotten the hang of cooking big meals for her family. Still, she insists on hosting them every time.

“I’m not picking on him!” Fukurou shouts back at her, relaxing his grip enough for Sachirou to finally slip out. “I’m teasing him.”

Sachirou finally unknots his shoelaces.  His sister appears at the end of the hall then, her long hair tied back in its usual ponytail and a bright yellow apron that’s much too small tied  crookedly  around her waist. It’s covered in brown and orange spots; Sachirou doesn’t want to know how those got there. She fixes her gaze on Fukurou immediately. “You know that’s the same thing, right? At least let him breathe for a few minutes, then you can make him regret coming all you want.” Next, she turns her head to look at Sachirou and smile  softly. “Hi, Sachirou. I’m glad you came. Dinner will be ready soon, so please ignore our drunk brother.”

“Hi, nee-chan,” Sachirou replies, his sheepish smile transforming into an almost wry grin. He swallows the jab he wants to take at his sister’s tiny, stained apron, instead adding, “Don’t worry. I always ignore him, drunk or not.”

Shouko throws her head back and cackles, twirling around to return to the kitchen. “Ah, that’s the way to do it, isn’t it?”

Sachirou follows her,  tauntingly  gesturing for a sputtering Fukurou to join them.

An hour and one can of beer later, their takeout is ready.

Shouko is flat on her back with her limbs spread across the tatami in her living room like a starfish.  She's pouting up at Sachirou where he sits already in his spot at the low table, preparing for the pizza that Fukurou left to pick up from down the block.  Sachirou knows none of their personal trainers would  be pleased  with their meal choice, but it’s better than risking food poisoning by eating whatever Shouko had been trying to make when he arrived.

“I'm telling you, we could’ve salvaged it!” she insists, rolling over onto her stomach to look at Sachirou. She props her elbows up and rests her chin on the backs of her hands. “And I swear, I’m getting better! At least the smoke detector didn’t go off this time.”

Sachirou hears the front door open and shut, followed by Fukurou’s returning footsteps. “Are you trying to kill me, nee-chan? Sabotage my career? After all I’ve done for you over the years?”

Shouko snorts. “When have you ever done shit for me?  Aside from that one time you convinced my high school boyfriend that your dog's possessed, and that you’d make her attack him the next time he came over. He broke up with me because of that prank.”

Sachirou shrugs. “He was an asshole anyway. I actually did us all a favor with that one. But you still haven’t thanked me!”

“Some favor you did him. I’m pretty sure he can’t even go near dog parks anymore without freaking out.”

“What’s this? How do you know that? Do you still keep in touch with him, nee-chan?” Sachirou teases, smirking down at his sister. “Should I bring Shumai around again, for old time’s sake?”

She sneers at him and opens her mouth to reply. Before she can say anything, she’s interrupted by the door  forcefully  sliding open. Fukurou enters with two steaming boxes of pizza.

“Food’s here,” he announces the obvious, setting the boxes on the table and sitting down across from Sachirou. Shouko pushes herself up onto her knees and waddles over to sit at the table between them. “We won’t go hungry tonight.”

Shouko rolls her eyes at Fukurou’s subtle taunt, and Sachirou lets himself smile  just  a little bit.  It’s moments like these — when they aren’t talking about volleyball or work or any of his life choices — that he enjoys the best. It helps him believe everything can be okay, at least for a little while. Fukurou opens the box on top first and pulls out a slice for himself, Shouko and Sachirou following suit.  They give a quick thanks, but throw out any of their other usual dining etiquette because it’s  just  the three of them, and begin eating. They chew in silence for a while, savoring that fact that this food isn’t burnt beyond edibility.

“So,” Fukurou begins between bites of pizza, “how’s your _work,_ Sachirou?” He says _work_ as if he’d put air quotes around it if his hands weren’t preoccupied. As if he doesn’t consider Sachirou’s job anything of merit.  Sachirou knows that he feels that way; it’s rare that Fukurou doesn’t take advantage of every opportunity to  explicitly  let him know as much.

Sachirou cringes with his mouth full. He knew the work talk was going to come up soon, but he didn’t expect it to happen then, when they’d been getting along so well. Of course, it’s exactly like Fukurou to stick a wrench in it all.

Sachirou wants to end this conversation as soon as possible, so he decides to put on airs.  Sachirou omits the fact that, although he’s an actor by profession, every day off-screen is also spent pretending to be someone he’s not, and he’s stuck in an endless cycle of playing in movies he hates.  He tries to swallow the food in his mouth but he struggles, his throat blocked by a lump of white-hot irritation crawling up in the opposite direction.  It’s not directed at his brother alone, but at himself for putting himself in another situation from which he can’t find any outs.  A situation he doesn’t know how to fix, no matter how hard he thinks and strategizes, because he’s burned all the bridges that would’ve provided an escape.

“Work is _great_ _,_ nii-chan,” he finally manages, washing down the starch in his throat with a sip from his second can of beer. “Actually, this morning, I got offered a role in another movie. I’m their first choice, so I guess you could say work couldn’t be better.” He tries to smile, but he knows it looks more like a grimace. He can feel Shouko scrutinizing him out of the corner of her eye.

Fukurou smiles back at him  condescendingly.  Sachirou resists the urge to roll his eyes all the way into the back of his skull by keeping them  intently  trained on the plate in front of him. “I’m glad to hear that you’ve chosen the right path, then. You seem _very_ in demand. Is it a big movie?”

“Could be,” Sachirou replies with a nonchalant shrug, “I’m not sure yet. All I know is the basic premise and some of the people involved.”

“Oh? What’s it about? Something exciting?”  Fukurou leans forward in his seat, and if Sachirou didn’t know any better he’d think that his brother is  genuinely  interested in his work.  In reality, Fukurou's trying to draw as much information out of Sachirou so that he can use it against him later in an attempt to show Sachirou that he should have stuck with volleyball all along.

“I think  so,” Sachirou lies. He tries to echo Kita’s brief description with as much enthusiasm as he can feign. “It’s supposed to be a romance. Star-crossed lovers and all that. Typical stuff.”

“That sounds fun!” Shouko interjects, trying to diffuse the situation before Fukurou can say anything else. She’s looking back and forth between them, eyes pleading. “I love romantic dramas.”

Fukurou falls back onto his heels and eyes Sachirou as he takes another bite of the pizza. He chews, then swallows, then opens his mouth again  slowly. “Seems like you’ve been in a lot of those lately. Is it getting a little boring?”

“Not at all. Why would you think that?” Sachirou asks through gritted teeth. “If I didn’t enjoy them, I wouldn’t do them. Don’t you think that’s only logical?” Sachirou feels like he’s talking to himself. Giving his brother all the same reasoning he mutters to himself when he lies awake in his bed every morning, staring up at the ceiling as the sunlight streaming in through his window creeps higher up the walls.

Fukurou swirls the remaining liquid in his beer can around. The sloshing noises echo against the aluminum. “Well, I’m not sure how it all works, but you’d be out of a job then, right? We wouldn’t want that. You’d have no _choice_ but to grace us with your presence all the time!”

Sachirou doesn’t know if he can be civil anymore. The alcohol in his blood feels like it’s been lit on fire. All his frustration is about to boil over and scald everyone in the vicinity. Even Shouko, the innocent bystander.

He wants to stand up and storm out. He wants to point a finger at Fukurou.  To tell him that he has no idea what he’s talking about and chastise him for never caring enough to learn _how it all works_ in the first place.  To yell and explain that there are reasons why he avoids spending time with his brother, and this is one of them; the constant questioning and guilting and reminders about past arguments that, for some reason, Fukurou doesn’t seem to want to bury.

Sachirou doesn’t do any of that, because there’s  suddenly  a steadying hand on his forearm. His sister’s gentle reassurance brings him back down to Earth. To her living room, the tatami firm under his knees. The smell of cheese and bread and beer linger in the air as his lungs expand and contract.

“That’s enough of that, nii-chan. Sachirou loves his job, no matter what. We’ve established that plenty of times,” she says, stern eyes locked on Fukurou. The tension remains, but Sachirou’s breathing steadies. He’s never been more thankful to have been born with a sister, even if she spends most of her life teasing him. She pulls her hand back and picks up her slice of pizza again. “Now, is this pizza place new? I’ve never heard of it, but the sauce is  really  good.  Maybe  I’ll start going there more often when I’m not traveling.”

Sachirou tunes out the following discussion between his siblings, debating the perfect pizza sauce-to-cheese ratio. Instead, he focuses on the remnants of crust in his own plate as the spinning room  slowly  comes to a stop. When he picks it up to take a minuscule bite, he tries to keep his hands from shaking.  Sachirou's disappointed to find that it tastes like nothing but his own frustration and ire, metallic on his tongue.

He loves his sister, and he wants to make her happy, but he doesn’t know why he keeps showing up to these things when he knows that this will happen.  When he knows that his brother hasn’t learned how to let go of his disappointment from eight years ago, choosing to dredge up the same feelings every few months instead of letting them settle and moving on once and for all.  When he knows that having to deal with his own uncertainty is enough without also dealing with Fukurou’s disapproving looks and backhanded compliments.

It’s the same every time.  No matter how hard Shouko tries to encourage them to make new, happy memories, Fukurou decides to bring up the past. Meanwhile, Sachirou is stuck somewhere in the present, unsure of how to proceed.

Eventually, he’s brought back to Shouko’s living room by someone calling his name and a sharp poke to his belly. Instinctively, Sachirou slaps the finger away before he even realizes what’s going on. Fukurou is gone, along with one of the pizza boxes, and his plate is clean.  Shouko was the one repeating his name, and now she’s leaning over the corner of the table to stare at him, the lower hem of her t-shirt threatening to fall onto her plate on top of her half-eaten third slice of pizza.

Sachirou  exaggeratedly  pouts at her. “Nee-chan, you can’t do that when my stomach is full. What if I throw up all over your brand new table?”

Shouko leans back again and looks down at her plate, scrunching her nose in disgust. “Gross! Why would you put that image in my head? Now I won’t be able to finish eating.”

“You should’ve thought about the consequences of your actions before you poked me,” Sachirou sing-songs  .  He opens the remaining box and dances his fingers over the warm pizza before selecting a particularly big slice and taking a hearty bite. Without swallowing, he asks, “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

Shouko sneers at him. “First of all, don’t speak with your mouth full. Were you raised in a barn?”

“You were there. You saw it all. It was close enough, wasn’t it?” Sachirou interjects  pointedly.

She ignores him. “Second of all, you were staring off into space. I've been calling your name since nii-chan left for the bathroom and you weren’t responding. I had to get your attention somehow.”

Sachirou doesn’t say anything to that. He  quietly  chews on the pizza, waiting for her to continue.

“Nii-chan… He means his best," she begins.  At this point, Sachirou’s rolled his eyes so much in a single afternoon that, he feels like they’re about to roll right out of his head. “At least,  I think  he does. But he doesn’t know how to show it sometimes. He’s still trying to reconcile with the whole no-more-volleyball thing.”

“It’s been eight years,” Sachirou spits with vitriol, placing his pizza down on his plate. “He hasn’t had any shortage of time to reconcile with _the whole_ _no-more-volleyball thing.”_

Shouko looks at him for a moment, meeting his eyes with her eyebrows knit together. Sachirou can’t decipher the expression on her face. It’s not accusatory, nor is it apologetic. He figures it’s closer to resolution; gentle determination. She sighs.

“You’re right, that’s true. It’s definitely on him for being so stubborn about the whole thing and holding onto this _stupid_ grudge for so long.  Honestly, he'd be more understanding if he actually went out of his way to learn about _why_ you chose to become an actor, and how good you are at it. It’s a shame it’s taking him so long to do that.”

Sachirou lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and allows himself to slouch down in his seat. _“Thank_ _you._ That’s what I’ve been trying to say, but he never—”

_“But_ _,”_ Shouko continues, cutting him off, “You need to try to give him more opportunities to do that, too. To learn and listen.”

Sachirou frowns, confused. “How am I supposed to do that when he  obviously  has no interest in _learning_ and _listening?”_

“Well, you could try to hang out with him more than three or four times a year. Spend time together, aside from when I’m forcing you together against your will.” Shouko tells him this  confidently, as if it’s something she’s given a lot of thought to. Her voice doesn’t waver and she maintains steady eye contact.  It reminds Sachirou of when they were teenagers and she would lecture him for snooping around in her room while she was at volleyball practice. “I know he invites you to his events and matches sometimes, but you always make up some excuse to get out of it.”

“It’s not like those excuses are lies,” Sachirou rebuts, whining. “I am a busy man! It’s the price that comes with being famous.” He tries to say it with nonchalance, as a joke, but Shouko’s known him his whole life. No matter how good of an actor he is, she can  easily  tell when he uses humor to mask truths he’d rather hide.

“I call bullshit.” She leans over the table and pokes him again with her index finger, in the shoulder this time. “ Maybe  you’re busy sometimes, but you can’t have conflicts _all_ the time. I know it’s because you don’t want to spend time with him alone. Because you know he’ll spend the whole time trying to show you what life would've been like if you were more like him. Then, you’ll both get into another one of your pointless, dumbass arguments without me there to break it up. Who knows what’ll happen then. I’d  probably  have to drive out to wherever you are and pick you both up from jail.” She sits back down and breathes out a heavy sigh, the puff of air making her bangs bounce against her forehead.

Sachirou doesn’t deny this.  Even when Shouko’s there, he can  barely  listen to his brother posture about how great his life is, thanks to volleyball . He knows it’d be worse if she were gone. “It’s not my fault he’s unpleasant to be around! You know how he is. Didn’t we already talk about that? Can we go back to complaining about nii-chan, please? I was completely on board with you when we were doing that.”

Shouko ignores him.  “If you didn't get so defensive with him all the time, he’d be more open to listening to what you have to say, and actually understanding it. Not everything he says is an attempt to rile you up, you know.”

“It sure feels like it,” Sachirou mumbles, defeated. “But why do _I_ have to be the bigger person? I haven’t done anything wrong! Would he rather I do what he wants me to and spend all my time being unhappy with it?”

Shouko’s eyes soften, and she maneuvers around the edge of the table on her knees to sit beside Sachirou. She  gently  places her hand on his knee. “I don’t think that’s the case, Sachirou. The thing is, he’s saw his own reflection in you for a long time. When that changed, it was jarring and he’s still struggling to detangle his own desires from yours. He believes you want the same things he did, and you  just  haven’t realized it yet. I know that’s not true, but he needs a little more time. He’ll come around  eventually.”

Sachirou feels his eyes start to sting and his throat burns, his stomach churning with the pizza he ate. He almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous his whole situation is.  He doesn’t cry  easily, but everything — his work woes, and his brother’s stubbornness, and _everything_ — is so frustrating that it’s taking all his energy to keep his tears in. Sachirou’s exhausted. For some reason, Shouko’s talk hasn’t made him feel better at all, despite his sister’s good intentions. At least, if anything in his life ever goes  irreparably  wrong, he’ll always have her and her good intentions.

“When? After eight more years?” Sachirou says  bitterly  with a weak chuckle. He doesn’t say, _Eight more years is better than never, I guess._

Before Shouko can respond, the door to the living room slides open again and Fukurou reenters, a relaxed look on his face and no idea that they were talking about him. Sachirou looks over at Shouko where she still sits next to him.  Her face  is pinched  into a stern, thoughtful expression as she watches Fukurou sit down on his knees across from them. No doubt, she's planning to have her own talk with their brother later. That makes Sachirou feel a little bit at ease, at least. He won’t be the only person on the receiving end of one of her lectures today.

“Why are you sitting over there?”  Fukurou asks  lightly, lifting the lid off of the remaining pizza box and mentally debating whether to take another slice.

Shouko slings her arm around Sachirou’s neck, pulling him down so that their heads are next to each other. Sachirou wishes that his siblings didn’t have this obsession with yanking him around. At this rate, he’s gonna have severe back problems before he hits thirty.

“Am I not allowed to sit nice and close to my favorite baby brother?” she asks  playfully, right in Sachirou’s ear.

He wriggles around for a few seconds before finally pulling himself free of her strong grip. With one hand on her shoulder, he shoves her away gently and she rocks with the movement. Sachirou plugs his nose  dramatically. “No. You’re not. You smell like burnt fish and if that smell rubs off on me then people on the train home are gonna look at me weird.”  He’s  mostly  kidding, but there is a slight acrid, fishy smell wafting towards him from Shouko’s direction that he can sense if he concentrates hard enough.

She pouts at him but scoots away anyway. “I can’t believe this. I hardly ever see either of you anymore, so I invite you over for a lovely family dinner, and _this_ is the thanks I get!”

“Shouldn’t we be thanking the pizza place, though? They’re the ones who actually made us dinner,” Fukurou inputs. He’s decided on one more slice of pizza and he’s waving it, halfway eaten, around in the air, gesturing towards Shouko. There’s a smear of tomato sauce on the tip of his nose. Sachirou stifles a laugh.

Shouko throws her hands up in the air in defeat before clambering to her feet and making her way to the door. “You’re both so ungrateful. But since I’m an angel of a sister I’m going to forgive that and make us some tea that we can eat with Sachirou’s botamochi.”  Without another word, she slides the door open and disappears into the kitchen, leaving Sachirou alone with his brother.

“Sachirou,” Fukurou begins immediately, his mouth full. Sachirou flinches in anticipation. “I’ve been meaning to call you and ask you about something, but since you’re here  I might  as well ask you while I have you.”

Fukurou’s face is still reddened from alcohol ever so  slightly, a little like he went for a short jog. He hasn’t had much else to drink since Sachirou arrived, though, so his voice is even enough.  Sachirou thinks that almost makes it worse somehow, because it means whatever question his brother’s about to ask isn’t some drunken impulse.

For lack of anything better to do, Sachirou downs the final remnants of beer in his own can with a single gulp.  He’s never been one for the taste of it, but it’s better to have something to dull the constant noise in his mind a little as he deals with his brother. “What’s up?” he replies. The residue of beer burns, bitter on the back of his tongue.

“I’m sorry if this is short notice, but it’s been hard to get a hold of you lately. The season is ending in a couple of weeks, so the men’s League wants to host a big gala for some of the Division 1 teams. It’s a benefit for a refugee charity,  I think, and it’ll be in the beginning of April.”

“Oh, have fun, I guess.”  Sachirou isn't stupid. But he’s developing an idea of what Fukurou might be planning to ask, so he’ll play dumb as long as possible; stalling the inevitable.

Fukurou sighs. “Sachirou, they're gonna hold it at a hotel in Roppongi. You live nearby, right?”  Sachirou nods, tightening his grip on his empty beer can enough for the aluminum to give under the weight of his fingertips. His brother continues speaking, drowning out the sound of the creaking metal. “We’re each allowed a plus one, so why don’t you come with me?  Maybe  it’ll be good for your career. Good press, and stuff? I mean, to be honest I’m still not sure how all that stuff works for you or how it’s different from my press appearances. But you said you  were offered  a part in a new movie. Don’t you need publicity for that?”

Sachirou wants to say no immediately. He wants to say Fukurou doesn’t know what he’s talking about and that’s not what his job is like at all.  Sachirou hardly enjoys the banquets and events he goes to for his own work; where he has to  constantly  put on a show for everyone and pretend to be someone he’s not.  Where he has to keep up his handsome, heartthrob charade for hours while socializing with people who’d immediately turn the other way if they ever found out certain truths about him; who’d never care about him if he were anyone else. Where he has to put on an act, even though he’s not on set and there aren’t any cameras around.

The thought of having to do all that, as well as dealing with his brother introducing him to all his teammates and coaches and agents in attempt at showing him the life he could’ve had — the life Fukurou thinks he _should’ve_ had . It’s enough to make him lightheaded.

But, through his  barely  cloudy stupor, Shouko’s voice reaches him. _An opportunity to learn and listen_ _,_ his memory echoes. _Go to the things he invites you to._

So, even though he doesn’t quite know why — even though he knows he’ll later blame it on the faint buzz of alcohol and his  comfortably  full stomach and his fatigue from the long train ride; even though he’ll definitely curse his sister out later (to himself, in the mirror, because she’d kill him if he did it to her face) — Sachirou _almost_ agrees. “Sure,” he manages, despite the little voice in his head telling him to take advantage of the nearest out he can find. He’s too quiet at first, unsure of himself, so he repeats it. “Sure, I guess I’ll see if I can fit it into my schedule.”

Fukurou’s face relaxes.  If Sachirou didn’t know any better he’d have thought that his brother is  genuinely  looking forward to spending time with him.  Sachirou does know better, though, and eight years of disappointment after disappointment have proven otherwise.

“But, that’s not exactly how my press events work, either,” he adds before Fukurou can say anything. “They’re usually interviews and photoshoots. You know, everything that happens _after_ we’re done filming? I haven’t even been  officially  cast in this movie yet.”

Fukurou nods. “Oh. Well, you can still meet some of the guys.  They  probably  haven’t seen your stuff — it’s not  really  to their taste — but they should know plenty about you through me.”

_How can you say that so confidently? You look at me and all you see is yourself. Have you ever known the real me?_ Sachirou wants to say, but he lets that, and Fukurou’s not-so-subtle dig at his films, slide this time. The door to the room opens  abruptly.  Shouko enters with a tray in her hands, carrying a tea set and the box of botamochi that Sachirou had bought for them to share.

As she places it down on the table in front of them, Sachirou climbs to his feet. “I should get going, actually.”

Shouko straightens up to look at him and the smile she’d been wearing twists into an exaggerated frown, her cheeks puffed up and corners of her lips twisting downwards  sharply. “Already? Sachirou, you should know that it’s rude to eat dinner and leave immediately after. At least stay for tea. It’s family time!”

Sachirou grabs her shoulders, one in each of his hands, and shakes her  gently.  She doesn’t resist, rocking back and forth with the motion, still pouting with her eyebrows curled down. “I know, nee-chan.” He smiles, small but genuine, hoping that his sentiment is obvious in his eyes. “I  really  enjoyed spending time with you, okay? Dinner — the pizza, I mean, not whatever you were trying to make — was delicious, thank you. But I’ve had a long day and I need to catch another long train ride.” He glances at his watch where it hangs  limply  around his wrist, his hand still gripping Shouko’s shoulder. “The next one from here to Hamamatsucho Station leaves pretty soon.”

Shouko juts her chin out, but doesn’t protest as Sachirou wraps her up in a one-armed hug and plants a quick kiss in her hair. He gives a tight, quick wave to Fukurou on his way out. Shouko follows  swiftly  on his heels as he walks through the hallway to the front door.

“Let me know if it'll work out!  I’ll text you the specific details as soon as you need them, but you’ll need to confirm that you’re coming, first,” Fukurou calls after him before Sachirou’s able to completely shut the sliding door. “Please don’t back out of this, Sachirou!”

As Sachirou slips his sneakers back on, a wide-eyed Shouko looks down at him where she stands on the small ledge that leads into the hall from the genkan. “What’s that about?”

Sachirou doesn’t know whether to smirk or grimace at her. So, he does neither, choosing to fix his lips in a neutral line and keep his eyes on his shoelaces, instead. “I guess you could say it’s an opportunity for _learning_ and _listening.”_

\---

When Sachirou opens the door to his apartment, he expects Shumai to welcome him home.  Somehow, she  normally  senses his presence before he even sticks his key in the lock, and her happy barks reach him immediately. Instead, he’s welcomed by the sight of a man sitting on Sachirou’s couch.  His socked feet are up on Sachirou’s coffee table as he eats food from Sachirou’s fridge out of one of Sachirou’s bowls, watching a drama on Sachirou’s TV. Sachirou’s dog lies  comfortably  on the floor next to him. At Sachirou's entrance, Shumai only raises her head  slightly.

“You look like someone died,” Futakuchi says around a mouthful of his fried rice, leftover from last night’s dinner.

“You look like a freeloader,” Sachirou responds, locking the door behind him. Futakuchi scoffs in mock offense.  A piece of egg is stuck to his chin and it makes Sachirou chuckle to himself, startling Shumai into a standing position. Her nails clatter against the wooden floor.

Sachirou tosses his keys into the bowl on the small table next to the door, takes off his shoes without untying them.  Then, he shrugs off his thin windbreaker, perfect for early spring after sundown, before stepping up into the open living room. It connects to the kitchen that’s always been too big for his skill level.

It’s almost jarring to return to his modern, Western-style apartment right after visiting his sister’s old-fashioned house, with its distinct smell of tatami flooring and sounds of sliding doors opening and closing. But, Sachirou’s comforted, at least a little bit, by the view that greets him.

The wide, floor-to-ceiling windows that take up the entirety of the opposite side of the living room show him the darkening sky over Minato-ku. The skyline of the city is  gradually  igniting for the night, washing away any trace of the stars beyond. Looming above it all is the Tokyo Tower. Past that, he can see the expanse of the Tokyo Bay inlet winding right up to the edge of Minato-ku.  Sachirou thinks that even though his apartment usually feels stale and vacant — as far from a real home as possible — the view will never get old.

Lately, though, ever since Futakuchi moved into Sachirou’s spare room and began leaving his mark all over Sachirou’s apartment, it’s been starting to feel more lived-in. Before Futakuchi’s takeover, it wasn't personalized at all.  Sachirou maintained its showroom-ready aesthetic, aside from Shumai’s toys strewn around the living room and her food and water bowls in the kitchen.  Sachirou will _never_ tell Futakuchi as much, but it’s almost a relief when he trips over Futakuchi's dirty clothes on his way to the kitchen in the dead of night for a glass of water.  Or, when Sachirou  accidentally  sits on Futakuchi's phone charger where it's left behind on the couch,  irreparably  bending it in the process (and pretending that it’s not his fault when Futakuchi asks about it).

“I _told_ you this is only temporary,” Futakuchi replies.  Sachirou plops down next to him on the expensive leather couch that's not so much comfortable as it is pretty to look at, like a lot of other things in Sachirou's apartment. In Sachirou’s life. Futakuchi’s own cushion bounces in response. Shumai rounds the table to place her head in Sachirou’s lap, and he greets her by scratching behind her ears. Her tail wags  happily, thumping against the floor. “Once I find a _steady_ job that pays well, I’ll finally get my own place and I won’t have to crash here anymore.”

Sachirou snatches the TV remote out of Futakuchi’s lap and flips through the channels.  He's looking for anything in particular, but he’d co-starred in a film once with the lead actress of the drama Futakuchi's watching.  Sachirou would rather not see her on his television and relive the many times she tried to court him, and the many times he refused her advances.

“You told me that a year ago. I’m starting to think you’re taking advantage of my kindness.”  He says the second sentence with an affected, saccharine tone, and bats his eyelashes in Futakuchi’s direction for added effect.

Futakuchi jostles him with his shoulder, scowling. “As if. I’m not one of your adoring fangirls. Your awful personality and _lack of_ kindness is the reason I’m trying to get out of here as soon as possible.”

Sachirou laughs. “ Maybe  I should spend more time with you, then, if it’ll get you to leave even quicker. Now get your feet off my coffee table, and why can’t you eat at the table like normal people do?”

“Asshole,” is Futakuchi’s only retort, that piece of egg clinging to the stubbled curve of his jaw for dear life.

Later, after Sachirou makes sure that Futakuchi washes and dries his own bowl instead of sticking it in the sink and leaving it for Sachirou to deal with, he finds himself in his bedroom alone except for Shumai.  He’s abandoned the modern-style king-sized bed that takes up the entire middle section of the room, much too big for him alone, in favor of the plush floor rug.  The single rug is large enough to encompass the length of the far wall of the room, opposite the doors that lead to the en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet.  Sachirou rests right below the sliding glass doors that open onto the balcony overlooking Minato-ku’s skyline. The curtains  are drawn  shut and the room’s grown dark around him. His only light source is the faint outline of city lights through the thin fabric.

Sachirou’s laying on his back with Shumai’s head resting on his stomach.  One of his hands tangles in her fur and the other holds his phone above him, the blue light illuminating his face as he squints at the screen. His email app is open, and he’s scrolling through all his unread messages.  When he reaches the most recent one from Kita, the subject line of which reads, “Ennoshita Project Audition Details,” his thumb hovers  tentatively  over it.  He’s unsure whether to rip the band-aid off and open it now, or to put it off until he has no other choice but to find out what it says.

Suddenly, the bedroom door bursts wide open without warning. Sachirou jumps up into a sitting position,  nearly  dropping his phone in the process.  Shumai lifts her head up  slightly  to check who the intruder is, but immediately returns to her resting position when she sees that it’s Futakuchi. Sachirou thinks she’d make a terrible guard dog.

“Dude, can’t you knock?” Sachirou asks, locking his phone and setting it facedown on the floor next to him.

“I wanted to know where the dog went,” Futakuchi replies, as if that answers the question. He leans around the door, one hand still on the handle.

Shumai looks up at Sachirou as if she can sense that they’re talking about her. Sachirou  lightly  replaces his hand on her head, watching her as he speaks. “I can sic her on you, if you  really  wanna see her. She has a strong jaw, though, so be careful with any exposed skin.”

“She’d never bite me,” Futakuchi asserts, finally letting go of the door and taking a step into the room.  Not even a closed door can give Sachirou a break from his presumptuous unintentional roommate. “She _likes_ me.”

“I’ll ask her  nicely,” Sachirou says with a smirk. He can’t see Futakuchi’s face  clearly  in the fresh darkness, but he knows that he’s  probably  scowling. That’s more than enough to fuel his taunts. “Then she’ll have no choice.”

In the shadows, Sachirou can see Futakuchi make an obscene gesture in his direction, prompting a laugh from him  . Seemingly on his way out, Futakuchi huffs and turns on his heels until he pauses as soon as his grip returns to the door handle. He throws his head over his shoulder to look back at Sachirou. “By the way, how was your dinner?”

Sachirou sighs and lays back against the rug, his hands behind his head. “It was fine.” Sachirou’s unsure what the word _fine_ even means, and if it’s enough of a response to encompass all his real feelings. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he contemplates the dark ceiling as if the answer to his query will appear there. It doesn't. “It was nice to see my sister, at least.”

“Oh, yeah? It’d be nice if I could see your sister, too.” He can hear the smirk in Futakuchi’s voice. “You should invite her over again some—”

“You know, Futakuchi,” Sachirou says, cutting him off. He wishes one of Shumai’s toys was within arm’s reach, so he could aim it at Futakuchi’s head. “I buy your food. It’d be _that_ easy for me to starve you.”  He sticks his hand in the air and snaps his fingers for emphasis before letting his arm fall back to the floor beside him.

Futakuchi gasps  indignantly, his whole body facing Sachirou now. “Of all the things to take away, you’ll deprive me of _my food,_ you monster? You wouldn’t!”

Sachirou’s eyes are finally adjusting to the dim light. He turns his head to the side to look up at Futakuchi, a crooked smile plastered on his face. Sachirou ensures it's condescending enough to make up for their current elevation difference. “Oh, but I would.”

Then, unprompted, Shumai gets to her feet and scurries over to where Futakuchi is still standing by the door.  Sachirou exaggerates his affrontation as Futakuchi glances over at him  smugly, leaning down to pat her on the head.  Her tail wags, as if to rub it further in Sachirou’s face and make fun of him for even joking about the idea of Shumai biting Futakuchi.

“Told you she likes me,” Futakuchi brags.

Sachirou sits back up again and twirls around so that he’s facing the doorway, his back to the glass doors and the city lights beyond.  He leans back, tilting his head to the side and resting his entire weight on his hands, fingers curled into the rug behind him. “Whatever. She licks her own ass and eats grass. She has questionable taste.”

Futakuchi doesn’t reply, but he makes an enthusiastic show of continuing to pet Sachirou’s dog.

After a pause, Sachirou asks, “What did you do today, anyway? Visit any graves? See any family?”

Futakuchi freezes with his hand resting right on top of Shumai’s head, who leans up into the touch in response. He scrunches his nose as he returns his gaze to Sachirou. “Nah, none of that. Actually, an old friend of mine was able to get me a catering job with the company he does some advertising work for. I spent my day working at some big, rich Rappongi family’s fancy dinner party.” He resumes petting Shumai as Sachirou watches, one eyebrow raised. “The gig was only for today, but I’m hoping they like me enough to make it a recurring thing.”

Sachirou clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and Shumai turns her head to look at him.  He smirks at her and pats the ground beside him, finally prompting her to reclaim the spot on the rug she’d  just  vacated, laying down on her back. Sachirou grins  fondly  down at her, rubbing her stomach as a reward. Futakuchi scowls at them while straightening his back. Shumai kicks her leg in the air a few times, pleased.

“Oh? You have other friends? Why didn’t you ask to crash on his couch, then?” Sachirou teases, eyes still on his dog.

Futakuchi  gently  kicks at one of Shumai’s toys where it sits on the hardwood floor near Sachirou’s bedroom door. It rolls a few centimeters away. “You know the answer to that, asshole.”

Sachirou’s expression softens a bit. When he spares a glance in Futakuchi’s direction, Futakuchi is looking back at him, still frowning. After so many years, though, Sachirou almost finds it endearing.

They’ve been friends since university, before Sachirou became famous.  Despite short periods without communication between them, Futakuchi is  probably  the person, other than Shouko, Sachirou trusts the most.  No matter how many of his more avid fans read blog posts and tabloid articles about him and _think_ they know him and what he's like, Futakuchi is one of the only people Sachirou’s allowed close enough to understand the whole truth. Sachirou trusts Futakuchi with secrets that could ruin his career.  He knows that, no matter how much they might pick on each other, Futakuchi won't sell him out or hold anything against him.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Sachirou concedes. Before Futakuchi can finally leave, though, Sachirou adds, “Speaking of fancy parties. My brother invited me to a charity gala to celebrate the end of the V. League season. Or something.”

Futakuchi lets out a whistle through his front teeth. “ Just  you? No sister?”

Sachirou nods, tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth, eyes focused on the silver door handle Futakuchi is  absentmindedly  rotating back and forth in his right hand. “Yep. Nee-chan was out of the room when he told me about it. He asked _me_ to be his plus one, instead of, like, bringing an actual date. I don’t get it. He has to be up to something.”

“So don’t go,” Futakuchi says  simply  with a shrug. “You always turn down your brother’s invitations anyway, so what’s so different about this?”

Sachirou heaves a heavy sigh that prompts Shumai to lift her head up and look at him. “I guess it’s because of something my sister said.” He pauses. Sachirou sees Futakuchi open his mouth, and he continues before his friend can make another lewd comment.  “She had this whole conversation with me — more of a lecture,  really  — about how she thinks I should spend more time with him. So that he can talk to me and learn about what I do. As if he cares.” To conclude, Sachirou blows a raspberry, emphasizing his annoyance. He startles Shumai so much that she finally gets to her feet and leaves the room, abandoning them both.

Futakuchi  mournfully  watches her pad away into the hallway. He looks back at Sachirou and throws his hands up as if to say _oh, well_ before striding over to the bed.  He flops onto his back, arms stretched above his head, and makes himself comfortable among the  abundance  of sheets and pillows; way more than Sachirou's ever known what to do with.  Futakuchi rolls over onto his side to make eye contact with Sachirou where he still sits on the floor below the window.

“I guess she has a point,” Futakuchi says, voice muffled by the pillow he’s holding against his chest. “ Maybe  this whole time he’s been trying to reach out to you to get to know the current you better. But you aren’t giving him the chance by making up excuses not to go. Dumb excuses, too. Even Shumai could  probably  see through them, and she’s a dog.”

“How many times do I have to say they’re not _always_ made up?” Sachirou replies, exasperated, but he drops it quickly. “You guys don’t understand. I used to give him that chance whenever he wanted. But he only ever invited me to his volleyball matches, or other stuff like that. The whole time that he wasn’t playing, he'd go around and introduce me to all these big, important people I never cared about. Like, he was trying to tell me, _Look, Sachirou, this is the life you could’ve had. Do you regret quitting volleyball yet, or do I have to keep rubbing this all in your face?”_ Sachirou pauses, takes a deep breath, and continues, “Nothing ever changed, so I stopped going.”

“But it’s been a while, yeah?  Maybe  now he realizes he shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.”

Sachirou snorts, because the suggestion is so absurd it’s almost funny. “I can tell he hasn’t changed his mind. It’s obvious. Even when my sister’s around, he doesn’t hide his disappointment. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it. It’s  just… the fact that this is such a fancy occasion, and he’s giving up his chance to take a date with him… it’s so strange, to me.”

Sachirou finally tears his eyes away from the throw pillow on the floor beside the bed, where it fell when Futakuchi bounced onto the mattress. Their gaze meets again and Futakuchi shrugs at him.  “Hey, man, I know you’re a rich movie star who never has to worry about anything, but I’m never one to turn down invitations to fancy stuff. Well, if I was the type of person who actually got invitations to fancy stuff. But — free food and everything.”

Sachirou winces, because he knows Futakuchi means well for once, but to say he doesn’t have to worry about _anything_ is such a big understatement that it makes his stomach writhe with anxiety.  Sachirou’s grateful he doesn’t have to fuss over things like money and food, but, still, he worries about a lot of other things.

Like how he has a secret so big it fills him with so much fear and dread there’s  barely  room for anything else inside him.  Like how, if that secret somehow got out, no matter how hard he tries to keep it in and no matter how many things he denies himself in the process, it can  easily  ruin the career he’s already given up so much for — including his twisted relationship with his brother.  Like how he doesn’t even enjoy his work anymore, but he doesn’t know what to do about it, because he’s stuck accepting role after role that he hates, selling lies and unrealistic expectations to an audience that doesn’t care.

“To be honest, I hate black tie events,” Sachirou manages around the pit in his stomach, hollow although he ate more than enough for dinner. He musters up a smile in the faint lighting. “A black tie event with my brother sounds even worse. That might be my own version of hell, actually. After I die, that’s how I’ll  be tortured  for eternity. Either that, or I’ll be stuck talking to you for my entire afterlife.”

Futakuchi rolls his eyes. “What a terrible problem to have.  You’re so rich and famous that you can’t bring yourself to attend _another_ fancy, shmancy party with other _super_ rich and famous people, where you'll wear fancy clothes and eat tiny, fancy food and drink expensive, fancy alcohol. You must suffer so much for your craft,” he says  sarcastically. He rolls onto his back, legs spread-eagle across the enormous bed. “I’ve never been an attendee at anything like that, so I wouldn’t know what they’re like. I was trying to offer you a silver lining, or whatever. In case you end up going.”

“I guess the food is usually good at those things,” Sachirou mumbles. A little louder, he adds, “Definitely better than the stuff _you_ usually make, at least. It'd be nice to have a break from your cooking for an evening.”

Sachirou’s volleyball reflexes have  obviously  dulled over time. He  barely  manages to dodge the pillow Futakuchi throws  directly  at him. From behind the wall made by his hands, he sees Futakuchi sit up in the bed, still surrounded by a mountain of pillows.  Sachirou has no idea where most of them came from, or what the purpose of a throw pillow even is (other than for Futakuchi to throw them at him).

“Listen, if you _do_ go, but I’m  totally  wrong and Fukurou's still your same old, asshole brother,  just  give up on trying to act civilized for him. Act like a total dumbass and embarrass him. Fuck shit up, you know?”

Sachirou throws the pillow back at him, hitting him square in the face. It’s satisfying. “Ha, yeah, as if 'acting like a total dumbass' won’t get me plastered all over tabloid covers by the next morning. Kita-san would _kill_ me. You’ve met him. He seems like he knows where to hide bodies.”

“At least I’m giving you options. Without me, you’d be hopeless!” Futakuchi replies  defensively, and Sachirou laughs. This time it’s genuine.

\---

“You’re late, Hirugami,” Kita says a few days later outside of an office building in Chuo-ku, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing the expression that always makes Sachirou feel guilty even if he hasn’t done anything wrong.

It’s  nearly  midday, but not yet lunchtime, so the sidewalk they’re standing on is  relatively  empty. Sachirou can hear the Sumida River and remnants of rush hour traffic in the distance. The sun is high enough in the sky that it’s beating down on them, the Tokyo spring weather beginning to warm up.  He’s long since removed his light outer jacket, folding it and throwing it over one arm to reveal the dark button up he’s wearing underneath, the sleeves rolled up around his elbows.  When he notices Kita’s tan linen trousers, Sachirou second-guesses his own faded jeans, fraying at the hems. Even after a few years, Sachirou still hasn’t figured out what kind of clothes are best for these kinds of meetings.

“The subway was running late,” Sachirou lies. Kita turns on his heel to finally enter the building and Sachirou follows behind him.  In reality, a dog out on a walk with his owner had distracted Sachirou when he was on his way from the train station to meet Kita.  As a result, more people nearby noticed him, dragging him into signing autographs and taking pictures. Everything added ten minutes onto what should’ve been a five minute walk.

While they rush through the lobby, Sachirou glances  wistfully  towards the first floor coffee shop. His stomach rumbles at the thought of a sandwich or a pastry.  The only thing he ate that morning was a bag of rice crackers and a can of coffee from vending machines that he managed to grab in Hamamatsucho Station before his train arrived.

“You should have planned for that before you left,” Kita chides,  calmly  pressing the elevator button once to go up  .  Sachirou tears his eyes away from where the coffee shop employees are preparing for the lunch rush. He’s glad Kita’s standing in front of him, so he can’t see his face anymore. His tone isn’t harsh or reprimanding, but Sachirou frowns in response anyway.

“Sorry, Kita-san.” The elevator doors slide open and Sachirou trails Kita inside.  After it closes behind them, their side-by-side images reflected in the warped metal make the contrast between their heights  starkly  obvious.  The size difference has never stopped Sachirou from shrinking under Kita’s scrutinous gaze, though. This time is no different as Kita’s eyes meet Sachirou’s in their reflections. Sachirou gulps.

“You’re lucky the production team has  basically  already set their sights on you. Arriving a few minutes late shouldn’t leave a bad taste in their mouths.  Hopefully .”

Sachirou bites down on the response he almost instinctively wants to blurt out. _Lucky_ _._ A word he’s heard too often throughout his life.  A word he heard from his teammates in his early school years when they admired his size and his innate skills and his family’s reputation.  A word he heard from other boys in his class when they complained about how so many girls found him attractive and confessed their feelings to him.  Even now, a word he hears from fans and interviewers and admirers; how he’s _so_ _lucky_ to have been able to break out and become successful in his field. A career that plenty of people dream about but hardly ever find success in.

People throw it around like the word means nothing. He’s lucky, and they think that means he has no reason to be unhappy.  He should be grateful that he’s blessed with so many good things that no one else even gets the chance to experience, right?

Sachirou doesn’t see it that way. To Sachirou, being _lucky_ means that he’s _stuck_ _._ He couldn’t quit volleyball for so long, even though he hated it, because he was lucky to be so good at it.  He couldn’t turn down girls' affections, even if he could never bring himself to like them the same way they liked him, because he was lucky to have received it in the first place.  He can’t do anything that could  potentially  ruin his career, even if it means being true to himself, because thousands of people would give anything to have even an ounce of the fame he’s found.

Sachirou is lucky — no one ever lets him forget that — but he’s trapped.

It feels like hours before the elevator doors reopen with a ding into the reception area of the Karasuno Production Company’s 15th floor office.  It’s so  brightly  lit by the overhead fluorescents that the artificial lights make Sachirou nauseous.  The crow logo painted on the side of the wide reception desk, staring back at him, is  just  as unsettling as it was the first few times he visited the office.  It glares at him with a single beady eye as if it can sense all his reservations and the fact that he’d rather be anywhere else but here, except for  maybe  wherever his brother is.

Kita walks ahead of Sachirou to speak to the receptionist, but before Sachirou can take a seat in the waiting area, a silver-haired man appears from around the corner.  He speaks to Kita for a few seconds, then gestures for Sachirou to go with them down the hall, where they’ll begin the informal audition. While they walk, he introduces himself as Sugawara, the casting director for the film.

“Ennoshita’s told me a lot about you,” Sugawara says while they pass executive offices with closed doors and quiet, empty conference rooms. “He enjoyed working with you on a couple of his smaller projects. I’ve seen them, as well. You’re very good.”

“Thank you,” Sachirou replies  succinctly. He _is_ a good actor after all, he knows that, and he may have disliked those movies but at least he has manners.  The problem is that he never seems to be able to snag roles in movies that actually interest him; ones that don’t involve a climactic kiss with some woman he’ll never  be attracted  to.  He knows, though, that if he devotes too much time to seeking out a role in another genre, and that movie fails, it could ruin the career he’s agonized over for so long.

Sugawara continues, “Of course, this screen test is  just  a formality. Ennoshita and I were ready to give you the part as soon as Kita-san told us you’re interested.  But,” he  quickly  turns and looks at Sachirou over his shoulder, lowering his voice to a playful stage whisper and gesturing to the offices around them with a dismissive wave, “I guess all the higher-ups want us to bring you in and do more work than is necessary. So, we’ll try to finish with you as  quickly  as possible, for all our sakes. One monologue,  maybe  some questions, then we’ll  be done. In and out.” Sugawara grins at Sachirou, showing all his teeth, and snaps once with his right hand for emphasis.

When they finally reach their destination, Sugawara opens the door. Kita and Sachirou to enter first. “I’ll take care of the negotiations, then, so you won’t have to worry about all that stuff. You  simply  do what you do best, Hirugami,” Kita tells him as they walk into the audition room.

Sachirou breathes out a sigh of relief. It’s comforting to know that at least Kita is always there to vouch for him.  If he’d had any other agent when he was first starting out, Sachirou knows he wouldn’t be half as successful, and he doesn’t want to think about what he’d do without Kita.  If Sachirou told him about transitioning to a different genre, Kita would support him, because he always encourages Sachirou to do what’s best for himself. Still, Sachirou’s nowhere near ready to approach Kita about taking such a risky leap.

The audition room is  mostly  empty, containing  just  five chairs, a long folding table, and a camera on a tripod.  The table  is covered by  paper to-go coffee cups from the shop downstairs and messy stacks of paper: scripts, headshots, notes. The chairs are set up so that there’s three behind the table, one beside the camera, and one in front of it. A window on the side of the room opposite the doorway looks out over the Chuo-ku skyline.  Sachirou can see the other office buildings surrounding them, and a glimpse of the river beyond.

There’s only one other person in the room when they arrive, a man around Kita’s height. He stands up from where he was sitting behind the cluttered table to greet them.  Sachirou recognizes him as Ennoshita Chikara, a film director only a few months older than Sachirou. Despite his young age, he already has a sizable number of films and achievements under his belt.

Ennoshita shakes Kita’s hand first, muttering a succinct greeting, before turning to Sachirou, bowing  slightly. He holds his arm outstretched. Sachirou takes his hand in a lax grip and Ennoshita looks up at him, his lips pulled back in a tight, closed smile.

“We’re glad you could join us on such short notice, Hirugami-san,” he says after they shake hands, gesturing for Sachirou to take a seat in the lone chair facing the camera.  Once Sachirou sits, Ennoshita and Sugawara situate themselves in their own places behind the table. Kita pulls one of the remaining chairs towards the far side of the room, in the direction of the window. He takes his own spot away from them and the camera. “Sugawara  probably  told you that, if it were up to us, you wouldn’t even have had to come in today. We would’ve hired you immediately, over the phone. But, the executives want to see an audition tape, so here we are.” Ennoshita seems tired.  Sachirou’s well aware of how draining the development and pre-production stages often are. It reminds him of why he never wants to work on the other side of the camera.

“That’s okay,” Sachirou replies, tugging his own lips up into a slight smile. “It’s good to see you again, Ennoshita-san.”

Ennoshita gives him another slight smile in reply before picking up one of the many papers on the table in front of him, leaning over to pass it to Sachirou. Sachirou takes it. It’s a script with a single paragraph in the middle of the page highlighted in bright yellow. Sachirou begins reading it while Ennoshita continues talking to him.

“I believe  Kita-san already told you the synopsis of the film.” Sachirou nods. “Okay, good, then I’ll  just  have you read the marked lines. It’s a monologue that takes place during the climax of the movie.  Your character, Naoyuki, is explaining to the female lead, Ichika, _exactly_ how much she means to him and why he thinks they should stay together, despite her parents’ disapproval. I want you to try and sound as emotional and desperate as possible. Like, you’re scared you might lose the one person you love most in the world. You’ve done similar scenes before, and you always execute them  perfectly, but feel free to take your time with it.”

Sachirou nods again, his eyes still scanning the words on the paper in his hand. He  noiselessly  mouths along to get a proper feel for them.  Cliche scenes like this got old to him a long time ago, but he doesn’t scowl or throw up while he reads, no matter how much he wants to. He _is_ a professional actor, and he’s doing his damn best to act like he wants this role. A large part of him knows he _should_ want this role. His enthusiasm _should_ be genuine.

It’s kind of funny, Sachirou thinks, how he’s become known for being so good at acting like this — like he knows what it’s like to be in love, to lose love, to regain love — when he can’t think of a single moment he’s actually felt that way about anyone. Sure, he loves his dog. He loves his sister, too. But he’s never fallen  totally  head over heels in love with anyone, not in the romantic sense.  He’s never let himself get to that point, because he knows how dangerous it can be, and how  quickly  it can screw up everything he’s worked so hard to achieve.

That’s why he can’t bring himself to _ truly _ want the role. That’s why he can’t be genuine about playing a character who gets to have something he’ll never experience. Instead, he feels nothing but burden and obligation.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Ennoshita says, snapping Sachirou out of his thoughts.  Without waiting, Sugawara clicks the record button on the camera, lighting up the red light indicating that it’s rolling.  Once it’s on, Ennoshita states Sachirou’s name, the character’s name, and the film’s working title for the recording, then he looks over at Sachirou  patiently, letting him know that he has time to start at his own pace.

Sachirou clears his throat and begins reading aloud from the paper, inflecting as much emotion into his words as possible.  The way he speaks when he’s acting in scenes like this has always been as far from his normal speaking voice as possible. That’s what makes him so convincing.

“I understand where you’re coming from, Ichika. I do. Can’t you tell I’m also scared?  Every night, I’m _terrified_ that the next morning I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone because you’ll  suddenly  decide I’m not good enough for you, or we’ll get found out. What we’re doing, you and I, it’s risky. But it’s worth it. It’s worth it because, when I’m with you, I forget how awful and pointless my life was before I met you. All I can think about now is a future where we’re together. A future where we’re both happy. That’s thanks to you, you know. You bring out the best in me, and  I believe  I bring out the best in you, too.”  Sachirou lets out a choked sob and clutches at the fabric of his shirt, right above his heart;  really  selling himself. “It’s worth it. Don’t you think _we’re_ worth it, Ichika?”

Escaping his own problems by stepping into someone else’s is one element of acting that Sachirou still enjoys from time to time, even if the context is always some unrealistic romance drama.  It’s cathartic for him to pretend he's someone completely different from who he  really  is, as well as going the extra step of pretending that’s not already something he  constantly  does, even in his day-to-day life.

Sachirou completes the monologue, catching his breath and trying not to  outwardly  cringe at the cliche writing.  Sugawara is staring at him with his mouth hanging open  slightly, slack-jawed, and Ennoshita is smiling  broadly. His lips are tight, but his eyes seem pleased. All prior indications of his fatigue are gone.

Sachirou thinks that’s a good sign,  objectively.  Maybe  he should’ve tried to tank this audition on purpose, instead. Kita would’ve known, though. He would’ve looked at Sachirou with that firm, disappointed expression and never let him live it down. Kita always knows; Sachirou has no idea how.

After another second of silence, Ennoshita turns off the camera and  furiously  scribbles something on one of the many papers scattered in front of him. Beside him, Sugawara claps his hands together once with finality. “That was amazing, Hirugami-san.  Really. I’ve seen your performances before of course, but never in person. Nothing could’ve prepared me for such a moving display of talent. Ennoshita was  absolutely  right to have suggested you for this role.” Sachirou offers a small, wan smile as thanks, and he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Sugawara looks over at Ennoshita as he replaces his ballpoint pen on the table next to the stack of notes. “Well, what do you think? Have we found our leading man?”

Ennoshita nods  readily, pushing away from the table and standing up from his chair. Everyone else in the room does the same, following him to the exit. “Spectacular, as always, Hirugami-san. We were planning to go this route, with you, the whole time, but you surpassed all our expectations. I’m sure the higher-ups will feel the same when we show them the tape.” He gestures towards the camera. Then, he looks at Kita where he’s come to stand beside Sachirou, gripping the door handle already.  Over the years, Sachirou’s figured out that Kita dislikes this part of the process as much as he does, and they both want to leave as soon as possible. “I’ll call you in the next few weeks, Kita-san, then we can figure out contract negotiations and scheduling?  We'll begin principal photography towards the end of the summer, at the soonest, but we’ll have plenty of chemistry reads and rehearsals prior to that. Especially when we begin looking for a female lead to  adequately  match Hirugami-san.”

Kita nods, his hand tightening around the door handle. It's strangely comforting for Sachirou to know that Kita doesn’t want to be here, either. “Yes, that sounds good, Ennoshita-san. We’ll be in touch, and I’ll pass along all the necessary information to Hirugami.”

Ennoshita grins again as Kita finally opens the door. He and Sachirou bid their goodbyes, bowing their heads and making their way back into the hallway. Before they're able to get very far, Ennoshita sticks his head out from behind the door frame. He calls after them, “It was good to see you both!  We hope to  see you again very soon.”

When Kita and Sachirou are in the elevator once again, taking the  unnecessarily  long ride down fifteen stories, Sachirou lets out a breath in a long hiss. Kita watches him out of the corner of his eye before looking forward.  They make eye contact through the distorted images of them, reflected in the elevator doors’ metal surface. Sachirou has deja vu.

“That wasn’t too bad, then, was it?” Kita asks, hands clasped behind his back, standing straight with perfect posture.

_Nothing’s ever too bad,_ Sachirou wants to say. _But nothing’s ever really good, either._ “I got the part, so it was successful, right?” he offers. “That’s what matters.”

Kita’s expression remains  mostly  neutral, aside from a slight crease between his eyebrows.  Sachirou doesn’t understand how, after so many years of knowing each other, Kita’s remained  utterly  unreadable. He would give anything to know what goes through Kita’s head. “Yes, even though we were late.”

Sachirou’s shoulders slump forward. “I _told_ you I was sorry.  Obviously  it didn’t hurt my chances!”

Kita hums. _"This_ time.”

Sachirou murmurs another half-apology and closes his eyes.

Sachirou hates disappointing Kita.  Despite  all of  Sachirou’s initial inexperience and his past mistakes and his occasional reluctance, Kita’s believed in him ever since he took Sachirou on as a client.  He’s someone who's always had high expectations of Sachirou, even when he was first starting out and many people had _no_ expectations of him.  Kita’s one of the driving forces behind why Sachirou works so hard to maintain his career, and why he refuses to put it at risk.

Although Sachirou can’t tell what Kita’s thinking, he knows that Kita still believes in him.  Especially now that Sachirou doesn’t make as many mistakes as he used to (despite the fact that he might show up late to auditions from time to time).

The doors slide open, bringing them back to the building’s lobby where more people are milling around, having  just  started their lunch breaks.  The two of them weave through the small crowd together and, although Sachirou’s taller than Kita, he almost has to jog to keep up with his hurried, purposeful strides. As they pass the coffee shop, though, Kita stops in his tracks.  He glances over at Sachirou  expectantly, pointing towards the counter for one second before  quickly  retracting his index finger and lowering his arm. Understanding exactly what Kita means, Sachirou nods  enthusiastically.  His stomach rumbles in agreement when he catches sight of the pastries and sandwiches lined up in the display case.  The small burst of energy he received from his breakfast of canned coffee and rice crackers has worn off, and Sachirou could  desperately  use some sustenance before continuing his day.

_It all makes sense. Maybe Kita-san really can read minds,_ Sachirou thinks, a slight chill running down his back. He shrugs it off. _I guess it’s fine, as long as he only uses his power for good._

They approach the counter and stand together, waiting for the two people ahead of them in line to place their orders.

“This is my only lunch break. I have a meeting with another client in an hour and a half,” Kita explains, surveying the drink menu above them.  The drinks and food for sale here are simple compared to a lot of other fancy places Sachirou’s been to in Tokyo, but he doesn’t mind.  Although he’s been an actor for years, his tastes still aren't accustomed to the extravagance that people tend to associate with fame and wealth. He actually prefers this; easy and straightforward. For once, an area of his life that doesn’t stress him out. “I can tell that you need to eat something, too. Proper meals are important.”

Sachirou brushes off Kita’s pedagogy, attempting to lighten the mood instead. Kita’s preached at him enough for the day, anyway. “I didn’t know you had other clients, Kita-san,” he jokes. “I’m shocked. I thought I was special.”

Kita shoots him an irate look, but there’s no real punch behind it; Sachirou’s experienced worse from him. He steps up to give his order, shaking his head to himself. He mumbles  barely  loud enough for Sachirou to hear him, “Actors are so self-important.”

Sachirou laughs  lightly, a knot in his stomach loosening  slightly  .  Kita doesn’t joke with him often, but their relationship is solid enough that Sachirou still feels comfortable teasing him every once in a while (although he makes sure not to overdo it). He likes it this way; it’s comfortable, like everything in Sachirou’s life. Comfortable. That’s enough for him.

Sachirou places his own order next — a double shot cappuccino and a ham-stuffed croissant (because he knows Kita will _tut_ at him  disapprovingly  if he eats something sweet for lunch).  Once both their orders are ready, they navigate over to one of the only available tables of the ones scattered around the crowded cafe. It’s small, with  barely  enough space for the two of them.

Kita takes a miniscule sip from his own drink, steam coming off of it in waves. It’s too hot, and he purses his lips at his mug before putting it back down. “We can do our debrief here, then, while I have you. That way you don’t have to come all the way back to the office with me.”

Sachirou nods  wordlessly, chewing his food.  He’d much rather get their routine post-audition debrief out of the way as soon as possible, and he’s never liked Kita’s dark, boxy office. It makes him feel stuck and cramped, and he usually does whatever he can to avoid having to go there. In response, Kita pulls a small, pocket-sized notebook from the back pocket of his trousers. Sachirou notices his name written across the front of it in Kita’s neat, precise Kanji. Kita opens it to a specific page, marked by a pen trapped in the crease of the notebook. He trails a finger down the length of it, skimming what he’s written.  Sachirou’s gotten used to this, too — Kita’s meticulous organization and careful observation.

By the time Kita’s finished reading out his notes and giving his own input on Sachirou’s audition while Sachirou  simply  nods along, tucking away the information for later, Sachirou finishes his croissant. He wipes his buttery fingers on a napkin and picks up the mug in front of him to test the temperature of his drink. It’s not too hot anymore, so he takes a long sip.

“Of course, I’m sure Ennoshita-san will have plenty of other notes for you once production actually starts. So, I defer any final judgement to him as usual,” Kita concludes, tucking the notebook and pen away again.  He nibbles at the corner of his  practically  untouched sandwich, taking the time to chew and swallow completely before speaking again. “I did want to double check your schedule as well, so I know what to have in mind when he calls me to plan your next steps.”

Sachirou gulps. The cappuccino sloshes around, warm and energizing, in his  adequately  full belly.  He bounces his leg under the table, which is almost too short for him to sit at  comfortably, as he contemplates how to answer Kita. Finally, he says, “Well, you manage most of my work schedule — which I am _so_ grateful for, as usual. Other than that, I don’t have anything particularly big planned soon.”  He pauses, thinks for a moment, then resigns himself to add, “Except… my brother _did_ invite me to be his plus one at some charity gala for his volleyball team in a few weeks. But that’s not a guarantee yet. I haven’t decided if I wanna go.”

Kita looks up from where he’s been scrolling through his phone calendar, eyebrows raised and mouth agape only  slightly  with surprise. Sachirou thinks that if Kita wore glasses, he’d be staring at him over the rims right now.  Kita’s three-quarters of a sandwich and his coffee that’s definitely gone cold sit on the table, forgotten, next to Sachirou’s own plate, which is clean except for a few crumbs, and his half-empty mug. Almost immediately, Kita tells him, “You should go.”

Sachirou blinks, dumbfounded. It can’t be that easy, right?  The past few days have been a constant back-and-forth with himself over whether to accept Fukurou’s invitation, or what it might mean, or what could go wrong.  Now, Kita comes along and gives him an answer with the kind of ease and finality that Sachirou’s never been able to replicate. Kita, solving his problem, yet again.

“Why do you say that?” he tries to ask  nonchalantly, but he knows Kita will be able to see right through him.  No matter how good Sachirou is at acting, Kita learned all his tells a long time ago thanks to his  increasingly  detailed debriefs which have only hurt Sachirou’s efforts to lie.

Kita shrugs. “If you didn’t want to attend, you wouldn't have told me about it. You would’ve just decided a long time ago that you wouldn’t. Full stop. You’re only still considering it because some part of you,  however  deep down it may be, wants to go.”

Sachirou, at a loss for anything else to do, laughs, drawing the attention of some of the people around them. For once, it really _was_ that easy. Kita ignores him, picking up his mug and wincing at the cool coffee. Sachirou manages to catch his breath after a few seconds. “Alright, Kita-san. I know I can always trust you when I need something solved.”

“Please don’t come to me for all your problems, Hirugami. I’m not a life coach,” Kita interjects.

Sachirou soldiers on, “Then I guess I’ll be busy on the night of April 11th. Please don’t mark me down for anything else that day.”

Kita sighs and picks his phone back up from the table. “Will you need to buy a new tuxedo or anything?”

“No, I should be okay with what I have. It’s no press event or awards show or anything,” Sachirou replies with a hum. He taps his fingers against the table and looks around. A few heads  quickly  turn away when they see that he’s watching, but it’s not like Sachirou isn’t used to people staring. He’s  honestly  surprised that no one's approached him for any autographs or photos yet.  But, plenty of these people work in the same building as a big production company, so they must have gotten used to the occasional celebrity spotting.

When Kita and Sachirou finally walk out into the Chuo-ku afternoon sun, a few lunchtime stragglers are  briskly  making the journey back to their office jobs.  Sachirou shields his eyes, the reflection of the sunlight on the office buildings too much for him to bear. He bids goodbye to Kita as he returns in the same direction he came from, towards the train station.  While walking, he pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket, thumb hesitating for a moment over Fukurou’s contact. They don’t talk much, so their last direct conversation is from months ago now — New Year’s Day. Sachirou bites his lip and composes a new message.

**[To: Fukurou] 13:12**  
_send me the details for your gala thing. will meet you there on the night of._

He takes a deep breath, the rest of the coffee he’d chugged in a hurry swirling around in his stomach with unease.  Decisively, he presses send. _Kita-san, I really hope I don’t regret following your advice._

\---

When Sachirou arrives at the address Fukurou sent him — a high-rise, luxury hotel in the heart of Roppongi — he tries to remain optimistic, no matter how antithetical that may be to his usual outlook on life.  He retains that optimism for  all of  ten minutes, while he follows the flow of people dressed in formal evening wear,  similar to  his own plain, black tuxedo and bowtie that he bought last awards season. He trails them through the lobby towards the first-floor ballroom.

As soon as he enters, the light emitted by the bright, ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling flood his vision. His eyes adjust  quickly  enough to be able to take in the rows and rows of round banquet tables. Each has a large centerpiece consisting of fake, decorative flowers. Beyond the tables is a slight opening for a dance floor in front of a small, raised stage. No one’s dancing, but many of the other attendees are milling around, drinks in hand. Before Sachirou can get very far, though, he spots Fukurou through the throng. Immediately, he starts to feel his optimism seep out of him through his pores.

Then, after more than an hour of Fukurou dragging him between conversations with V. League officials and conversations with Japan Volleyball Association officials and conversations with Olympic athletes and back again, Sachirou starts to think he might regret following Kita’s advice.

“Your brother’s told me so much about you!”  One of them says, standing too close to him and patting Sachirou's shoulder with the hand that isn’t holding his drink glass. The ice in it clinks against the sides every time the man shifts his weight from one foot to the other. _How could he have?_ Sachriou wants to say. _He doesn’t even know me._ Sachirou can’t remember who this man is, but it’s not like he cares about that anyway. His conversation partner’s face is already flushed a deep pink, and his breath stinks of alcohol. “It’s a shame you quit playing when you had such a promising future in volleyball ahead of you.”

“I saw your most recent film, Hirugami-kun! Could I take a picture with you?” Someone else asks. The Adlers coach,  maybe? “My daughter _loves_ you, so I get dragged into watching them all the time.” He laughs, and Sachirou laughs, too, plastering on his fakest grin for a selfie.

“I’ve never seen you at any matches.” This time, it’s a woman slurring at him.  She's  crookedly  holding her champagne glass so  precariously  that the sparkling liquid is  nearly  sloshing over the side. She clasps his forearm in a death grip and bats her eyelashes at him.  Sachirou hasn’t had much to drink but he still feels like he might throw up if she gets any closer, her artificial perfume filling his nostrils with every  additional  second that they talk. She winks at him and he winces. “You should come to them more often! Support your older brother! I’d love to watch the Adlers together.”

It's too long before dinner is finally served.  Fukurou corrals Sachirou over to one of the many dining tables, where everyone else is already seated. While they eat, his brother does nothing but talk about himself and volleyball.  Even after Sachirou tries to mention that he got the role in the new movie in a futile attempt at giving his brother an opportunity to hear about his job, Fukurou brushes him off with a dismissive _oh, nice, anyway_ _._ Instead, he claps the shoulder of the tall, foreign-looking man sitting on his other side. The man introduces him as one of Fukurou's teammates on the Schweiden Adlers.

Sachirou disregards everything they say after that, picking at the fancy European food on his plate that he doesn’t have the palette for and taking a few swigs of the fancy European liquor his brother had shoved into his hands without asking  . It burns as he swallows.  Sachirou wonders if there’s anything Japanese in this ballroom other than the guests themselves. Even the music is some European suite performed by a string quartet.

Occasionally, he looks up and nods with a tight and fake smile, to make it seem like he’s paying attention. In reality, he  just  wants to know how much longer it'll be before he can leave without coming across as rude.  It’s not like he cares very much about that, but he knows Fukruou would tell Shouko and he’d get an earful from his sister later.

_So much for learning and listening,_ he thinks to himself, the conversation at their table fading into the background. _Sorry, nee-chan, but I don’t think this is gonna work out after all._

Eventually, the man talking to Fukurou leaves to go do something Sachirou doesn’t care enough to hear about. Then, Fukurou scoots his chair closer to Sachirou and slings an arm arm over his shoulders. Sachirou, head angled down, rolls his eyes at his half-eaten dinner.

“Are you having fun, Sachirou?” Fukurou asks, taking a sip of his own drink, identical to the one in Sachirou’s glass. “Isn’t it nice to meet all the people your siblings get to work with? Shouko knows some of them, too. You could’ve—”

Sachirou doesn’t look up when he cuts Fukurou off. “Nii-chan, I thought you invited me to this because you actually wanted to spend time with me. Not to parade me around and force me to listen to people I don’t know lament and mourn the future I could’ve had. Like you _always_ do. Why did you invite me,  really ?”

He finally lifts his head up, and Fukurou looks back at him, his expression thoughtful. “Well, I _did_ say, when I first invited you, that I was under the impression this would be a good press opportunity for you. To promote your movie, or something, yeah?”

Sachirou groans and drops his fork, leaving it to clatter against the porcelain plate. The noise is  quickly  drowned out by the live music, so they  thankfully  don't attract any attention.  Sachirou tries to keep his voice low when he  furiously  replies, “If you actually listened to me when I talk about my job, you’d know that I already told you. I don’t promote my movies until after I’ve already filmed them.” He rakes a shaky hand through his hair, ruining his carefully-styled locks.  “I was _so_ stupid to let myself hope that  maybe  you cared enough about something in my life other than volleyball for once. You can’t even get your head out of your own ass long enough to realize that I don’t _care_ about this shit anymore. I haven’t cared for a long time. I  probably  never did!”

Fukurou stares at him. His neutral expression has  been replaced  with quiet indignation, his eyebrows knitted together. “Do you  really  have to bring all this up again here? _Right now?”_ He holds one hand up in front of him and looks away from Sachirou’s affronted face. Fukurou takes a deep breath in and then letting it out through his nose. He turns back, whispering, “We’ll talk about this later, okay? You can yell at me all you want, take all your anger out on me, after this. I have to go talk to some people right now, though.”

Without waiting for Sachirou to reply, Fukurou pushes away from the table and slaps a practiced grin on his face before waving towards someone Sachirou  vaguely  recognizes across the room.  Fukurou fakes the smile so well that, around all his anger and aggravation and fatigue, part of Sachirou wonders whether acting also runs in the family.

Sighing to himself, Sachirou waits for Fukurou to turn his back before he stands up, too. He leaves his unfinished dinner and the dregs of his drink behind. He’s lost his appetite, anyway. Sachirou doesn’t know where to go; he only knows that he wants to be anywhere but this ballroom, at this moment.  Without waiting for a signal from his brain, his feet move in the direction of the nearest door which looms past the dining area and behind the empty stage.  Sachirou dodges the caterers as they flit around, taking away empty dinner plates, and he sidesteps anyone attempting to approach him or start a conversation.

He’s starting to feel suffocated.  The noise and the crowd and his brothers’ overwhelming dissatisfaction are grabbing him by the throat and refusing to let go.  Sachirou almost wishes he’d had more to drink, if only to have some sort of sedative; something to slow the stream of negative thoughts that keep rushing into his mind no matter how many times he tries to stem the flow.  By the time he reaches his destination — a pair of  ridiculously  ornate, large doors at one end of the room — he’s  practically  gasping for air. All the blood rushing from his racing heart to his head is dizzying him.

When Sachirou pulls one of the doors open, he expects to emerge into a hallway or a side room, not the garden that greets him. It stretches as far as he can see as the final remnants of sunlight glow orange on the horizon.  Most of the light illuminating the stone entry area pours in from the main ballroom, through the door that he’s holding ajar while he looks around. Still, it’s enough to make out the muted colors of the blooming spring flowers.  They're all stuffed into baskets hanging from the unlit lamps that surround the perimeter of the patio: red, puckering tulips, deep purple violets, and delicate, papery pink camellias.

Sachirou’s sure this garden is more beautiful in the daylight.  Tonight, though, he  just  thinks about how it’s the perfect place to finally catch his breath after  practically  a lifetime of holding his head underwater.  The floral scents mingle with the fresh spring air to wash away the smell of alcohol and cologne that linger on his clothes. It reinvigorates him, if only a little bit. Sachirou’s been doing events like this for years now, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to them. His brother’s… _everything_ only makes it worse.

As his eyes skirt over his surroundings, Sachirou realizes that he’s not alone in the garden.  Sitting on a stone bench — almost hidden by the darkness and the  carefully  pruned, sculptured hedges — is another man. Sachirou squints at him, heart in his throat.

He’s a vision in an off-white tuxedo, the jacket button undone to reveal a sky blue vest.  A matching bow tie  is looped  through his shirt collar and it hangs, untied and lopsided, where Sachirou catches a glimpse of his collarbone. A crumbled pocket square  haphazardly  tucked into his jacket pocket completes the set.

The man is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  He holds his tented fingers against his parted lips, staring up at Sachirou with his huge, saucer yellow-green eyes open wide.  Obviously , he’s as surprised to see Sachirou as Sachirou is to see him. His cropped white hair outshines everything else in their vicinity. Even in the poor lighting it forms a halo around his head. He’s glowing.

Sachirou looks down at his own plain, basic black tuxedo, feeling his neatly knotted bowtie constrict against his throat as he moves. He realizes that he looks remarkably _boring_ compared to this other man. It’s not a feeling he’s used to, given his profession.

When he looks back up, Sachirou lets himself think, for  just  a moment, that the other man is someone he’d  be attracted  to in another life. One without all his external pressures weighing him down and pinning him to the ground. The thought is  quickly  replaced by a suspicion that he looks familiar.  Sachirou can’t remember where he’s seen him before, despite his stark,  easily  memorable features.  He wonders if  maybe  the man is thinking the same thing about him; if he recognizes Sachirou from his films, or any of his other appearances. After all, the gaping look on his face is one Sachirou’s much too accustomed to seeing on people he passes every day.  Whether he’s walking to the convenience store down the street from his apartment, or if he decides to ride the train to Kita’s office instead of ordering a car.

“I hate these things,” Sachirou offers with a slight chuckle, wanting  desperately  to break the awkward silence between them. Wanting to wipe that silly look off of the man’s otherwise handsome face. Sachirou scratches the back of his head and walks further into the garden. The heavy door falls closed behind him and plunges them both into darkness.  At least, as dark as it can be with the Roppongi skyline lighting up for the night above them and the full moon watching their every move. “I’m still not sure why I agreed to this.”

The man snaps his mouth shut and sits up, placing his hands on his knees and blinking at Sachirou a few times. Then, he lets out a long breath. As Sachirou’s eyes adjust to the lighting, he sees his eyebrows knit together. “Tell me about it!” he  practically  squawks, and Sachirou starts, not expecting such a rowdy response. “Having to wear a tux and act all proper and everything. It makes me feel like I’m  being strangled. I came out here to feel like a person again.”

Sachirou raises an eyebrow.  A sudden rush of warmth blooms in his chest against his will, despite the slight breeze in the air; a remnant of winter passed. “Yeah.” He breathes out in relief. “I know exactly how you feel.”  Slowly , Sachirou makes his way over to the bench and points at the space next to the man. “Even though you came out to be alone, you don’t mind if I join you, right? I came out here to feel like a person again, too.” It’s interesting, because Sachirou can’t remember the last time he felt like a person — a real, normal person. But even after having met this man a mere two minutes ago, that numbness is already beginning to fade.

The man shakes his head to say _no_ and slides over to make more room for Sachirou. He ends up taking a seat far enough away that there’s still enough space between them for another grown man to share. Sachirou takes a few deep breaths through his nose, inhaling more of the garden’s soft, floral scent.

He decides this is so much better than being inside, where everything is fake and sickly sweet. He already spends enough time in places like that when he’s shooting films. But outside, in this garden with this stranger, everything is real, and raw, and so refreshing.

The man clears his throat and  abruptly  turns to Sachirou. Sachirou tears his eyes away from examining the rose bush behind them to meet his piercing gaze. “Do I know you?” he asks  suddenly. “  I feel  like I’ve seen you before, but I can’t place it.”

Sachirou winces. He knew this was bound to happen, because it always does. But he thought he’d have at least a few more moments of being _nobody_ before the man figured out that he's _somebody._ He especially doesn’t feel like dealing with every uncomfortable thing that always comes with that realization.

Sachirou sighs, figuring that it'll be best not to lie. This man would  probably  learn the truth  eventually. “I’m Hirugami Sachirou,” he answers with a grim smile and a hand on his chest. He can feel his unsteady heartbeat through his tuxedo jacket. “  Maybe  that answers your question?”

The man’s eyes widen in recognition, his mouth opening into an even wider _O_ than before. Sachirou prepares himself for the worst. The man reaches across the space between them and pokes Sachirou once in the knee, startling him. “Oh!” he exclaims. “Well, that does explain it! So _you’re_ the captain’s brother! You two look so similar.”

Sachirou feels his heart stop. It sputters. It lurches to a start again.  He laughs  loudly, and it echoes off of the hotel walls and garden fences before bouncing away into the night around them. The man looks at him in confusion, unsure what about his statement was so funny. Sachirou has _tears_ in his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he  sincerely  laughed this hard.  Relief and appreciation and amusement swell in his chest, overflowing out of him in a way he’s not used to feeling at the mention of his brother, of all people.  He wipes at the corners of his eyes with his index fingers, his  previously  feigned smile growing wider and more genuine. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

“What’s so funny about that?” the man demands,  practically  jumping out of his seat. His voice is loud, but not in a way that grates against Sachirou’s ears. If Sachirou’s eyes were any sharper in the dim light, he might notice a tiny blossom of blush on the tips of the man’s ears.

“Nothing at all,” Sachirou says, finally catching his breath. He fails to suppress his grin. He tilts his head up to look at the  freshly  dark sky, instead. He can’t make out any stars through the thick, luminous layer of light pollution. _It’s a shame,_ he thinks, _that there’s not a single star in all of Tokyo. What will lead me home tonight? _ Keeping his eyes trained above them and speaking out of the corner of his mouth, he asks, “You must be on the Adlers with nii-chan, then?”

“I am!” the man replies  enthusiastically. Despite not even looking at him, Sachirou can feel his smugness and pride radiating off of his body in waves. “I’m one of their starting outside hitters.”

Sachirou lets out a whistle through his pursed lips. “Impressive,” he lilts. His neck begins to hurt, so he tilts his head down to look at his hands instead, where they’re clasped in his lap. “So you must be good?”

The man is almost vibrating. Sachirou can’t help but smile down at his hands,  hopelessly  endeared by this person he’s  just  met.  There’s something about him that’s thrilling, and Sachirou can’t even bring himself to worry about the implications of what that could mean. Of what kind of long-dormant feelings this could trigger within him. “One of the best, even! They call me the Little Giant.”

“Little Giant, huh? That’s a cool nickname,” Sachirou says, finally looking up at the man again.  His whole body is emitting an electric warmth, and his grin is so radiant that it makes Sachirou want to look away and keep staring at the same time.  Sachirou supposes that the man he’s looking at might be shorter than the average volleyball player, even in Japan.  But, from this brief interaction and his obvious  abundance  of enthusiasm alone, Sachirou can still tell that something as trivial as height isn’t capable of stopping him.

His grin disappears, but he’s no less radiant when he pouts at Sachirou. “I’m surprised you don’t know. Don’t you watch your brother’s matches sometimes? You seriously don't recognize me?”

Sachirou scrutinizes him, and he finally understands why he recognized the man when he first walked out onto the patio.  He can almost remember seeing someone with the same wide, lined eyes and bright, white hair like his (except it used to  be styled  in a feathery updo) before. That was back when Sachirou used to attend some of Fukurou’s league matches with his sister. Before Sachirou realized his brother never intended to reciprocate the same energy.

Sachirou shrugs. “ Maybe  , I guess? I’m sorry, it’s been a while.” He straightens his back and holds out a hand to the man. “But now is as good a time as any to  formally  introduce ourselves. Isn’t it, Little Giant?” After tonight’s disaster, Sachirou doesn’t plan to attend any more of Fukurou’s matches or events. He doesn’t know if he'll ever see this man again. Regardless, there’s something about this man that draws him in. He wants to know more about him, starting with his name.

The man looks down at Sachirou’s outstretched hand and looks back up before his face splits into the same breathtaking grin as before. He takes Sachirou’s hand and shakes it  vigorously, his own hand warm and rough from a lifetime of volleyball.  It's  not unlike  Sachirou’s, whose own hands still boast remnants of years of meticulous practice, still not faded after all this time. “I’m Hoshiumi Kourai! Schweiden Adlers number 16, outside hitter.”

Sachirou lets out a slight chuckle as they continue shaking hands,  probably  longer than normal social etiquette would allow. “It’s nice to meet you, Hoshiumi-kun.”

Hoshiumi scrunches his nose in disgust for a moment. “This  is kind of  weird, because that’s what the captain calls me. And you're not the captain, you're his brother.”  Then, his face lights up brighter than earlier, if that’s even possible, and Sachirou’s finally found a star even among Tokyo’s suffocating skyline. A star in a sea of artificial light, bright enough to drive away every corner of darkness. “I know we’ve  just  met, but you can call me Kourai!”

Sachirou tilts his head to the side, aware that he’s still clutching Kourai’s hand. His companion’s grip remains firm and steadfast. Sachirou tests the name out. “Alright, then. Nice to meet you, Kourai-kun.” It flows off his tongue  easily  and  perfectly  natural. This time when Sachirou smiles, there’s not an ounce of pretense in it.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> huge HUGE thanks to bri and kdad (@hoshiuwumi and @kurapikasdad on twitter, respectively) without whom, this fic would never have gotten off the ground, and this chapter alone probably wouldn't have even seen the light of day. i've never planned/written anything of this length (with multiple chapters) before, and their support throughout the process has been _so_ helpful and welcomed, even though i'm just getting started. :)
> 
> re: posting schedule - in short, i have no consistent schedule planned (sorry). i'm a student, and this chapter alone took me a really long time to finish and post. if chapters continue ending up at this length (aka, much longer than i originally plan), then i'll aim for a chapter once every other month, if not sooner.
> 
> thanks so much for reading and for your support. in the meantime, as i work on the next chapter, please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments, or you can come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vethirugami) or [tumblr](https://spiritedsway.tumblr.com/) ! <3


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